


Magnetic

by jellyfish_spine



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 12:02:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12911535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jellyfish_spine/pseuds/jellyfish_spine
Summary: "Home is wherever I'm with you" - David Krejci, probably.





	Magnetic

They’re on a road trip in Florida and it doesn’t feel like Christmas, it barely feels like winter. Pasta convinces David to go out with him, promises it won’t be rowdy, promises that he’ll behave. It’s hard to believe that he’s not up to something when he holds council with the Uber driver before David has made it halfway to the car. It’s hard to believe that Pasta hasn’t cooked up something mischievous when he’s turned his body away from David in the backseat, fervently tapping away at his phone.

David likes to think he doesn’t mind not knowing what’s going to happen, the windows rolled down and the thick air enveloping him. It smells like the ocean, not in the same way Boston does, but it’s good too. He likes to think he’s got Pasta all figured out, where he’s going to be on the ice, how to help him understand a new play, how they fit together.

They get out of the Uber and Pasta is pulling David along the strip, bobbing and weaving in between people with reckless abandon. David feels out of breath, feels out of his depth when the hostess for the restaurant seats them at a table set for three and Pasta has a face splitting smile aimed at him.

“Who’s the third place for?” David racks his brain; can’t think of anyone they know in Sunrise. Maybe Jagr? But he’s usually too busy to catch up outside of national team events.

Pasta gulps down half of his water before answering, “Just in case someone shows up”. He smiles back at David, expectant for something David can’t seem to place.

He stares at his own place setting, wondering if he’s missed some secret note. “There’s no menus?” David moves to stand and find a waiter and Pasta grabs his wrist to hold him back.

“You worry too much. Just enjoy”.

David takes a sip of his wine and looks out towards the ocean. The cargo ships seem to float off in the horizon, glimmering lights where the ocean meets the night sky. He tries not to worry about the extra place setting, or the number of wine glasses Pasta finishes.

*

David enjoys the dinner, ignores the extra place setting, and gets lost in how much he enjoys Pasta’s company. He admits that he’s enjoyed himself, the meal, the view, and even the unseasonable warmth. He’s not bothered when Pasta is pressed up against him in the back of the Uber. Doesn’t mind the way Pasta idly mouths at his jaw.

David thanks the Uber driver and ushers Pasta out of the car, props him up against his side and shuffles into the hotel lobby. He worries about how much wine they had, about if he’s setting a good example. He worries that he doesn’t want to be bothered with expectations anymore.

He shuffles into the elevator, enjoying Pasta’s soft laughter every time they stumble. He says a small prayer of thanks that no one joins them, lets Pasta sink into him, face pressed against his chest, arms wrapped around his waist. He feels better, grounded even, despite the weightlessness of the elevator. He presses a kiss to Pasta’s forehead before the doors open.

*

David lays awake in his own bed, letting the season wash over him. He feels old, like he’s made of replaced parts that don’t seem to click. He worries about holding Pasta back, holding the team back. He rolls over, thinks about how earnest Pasta was in expressing his love. How he said it when David untied his shoes, and when he pulled the covers tight around Pasta’s body, just like he liked. He worries he can’t give Pasta everything he deserves, thinks about how Pasta kept pulling him back for another kiss before letting him leave.

He rolls over and goes to sleep.

*

David sleeps in, or tries to, waits until the sun has fully risen before rolling out of bed. The man looking back at him in the mirror looks haggard, deep circles under his eyes. He wants to crawl back into bed, bury himself in the sheets until he feels more like himself. Feels more like he can contribute to what Boston is trying to build. He hides for a little, pulls the curtains shut tight, and rolls away from the light peaking through the edges. He tries to ignore the gentle knocking on his door, tries to will himself asleep.

The door clicks open. He knows it’s Pasta, wishes he could spring out of bed and embrace him. Wishes he could give Pasta every part of him. The door clicks shut, Pasta shuffles through David’s room in his sock feet, setting a breakfast tray on the table.

David scoots over, makes room for Pasta to crawl in next to him. Pasta is quick to slide up next to David, presses his fingers along the frown lines carved in David’s face.

“You’ve been good this year”.

David closes his eyes, tries to relax into Pasta’s touch, tries to get lost in the feeling of being wrapped up with someone who loves him. “I haven’t felt good – I feel so old”.

Pasta presses their foreheads together, “Old doesn’t mean bad”. He leans away, leaving David wishing he could buy into Pasta’s every word. “I got you something. I meant to give it to you last night”.

David opens his eyes, takes in all of Pasta, the soft eyes, and honest grin. He lets himself smile when Pasta presses an orange into his hands. “Happy St. Nicholas Day, I wanted you to have a slice of home”.

David sets the orange on the night stand. He thinks about the night, the extra place setting, about sharing it with Pasta and it does feel like home, all of it. Pasta pulls him in, rakes his fingers through David’s short cropped hair. They both go to sleep.


End file.
